"Captain Winters," he said. "Please sit down."
Winters sat.
Kor Hal studied him. "You're nervous, Captain Winters. But I am afraid to treat you anymore. Atavism lies too close to the surface in you." He shrugged. "You remember the last time."
Winters nodded. "The same thing happened in N'York." He leaned forward. "I don't want you to treat me anymore. What you have here isn't enough now. Sar Kree told me that, in N'York. He told me to come to Mars."
Kor Hal said quietly, "He communicated with me."
"Then you will ..." Winters broke off, because there were no words with which to finish his question.
Kor Hal did not answer. He reclined at ease against the cushions of his lounge chair, handsome, unconcerned. Only his eyes, which were green and feral, held a buried spark of amusement. The cruel amusement of a cat which has a crippled mouse under its paw.
"Are you sure," he asked finally, "that you know what you're doing?"
"Yes."
"People differ, Captain Winters. Those manikins out there—" he indicated the solarium—"have neither blood nor heart. They are artificial products of an artificial environment. But men like you, Winters, are playing with fire when they play with Shanga."